


seven threads of fate

by Fumm95



Series: Tu Omnia (TWC) [3]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Adam du Mortain is a goddamn disaster, Angst, Awkward Conversations, Break Up, Denial, Emotional Repression, F/M, Fire, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, Libraries, Light Angst, Nightmares, Past Relationship(s), Prompt Fill, Research, Vampire Bites, Yearning, friendships, slowburn, wayhaven week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:13:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25235251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fumm95/pseuds/Fumm95
Summary: A collection of (technically six) one-shots for Wayhaven Week 2020. Rating will probably be bumped up, if I can get my life together enough to finish these.
Relationships: Detective/Adam du Mortain, Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Series: Tu Omnia (TWC) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769749
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34





	1. Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> July 12 (Day 1): **Dawn** / ~~Dusk~~
> 
> It's still technically the 12th here so shhhhh.
> 
> Many thanks to otomefandomevents on tumblr for running this!

The sky is still dark as Adam makes his way through the quiet streets of Wayhaven. This early in the morning, its citizens are still mostly abed and asleep, peaceful and calm while the last tendrils of night slowly fade against the coming sunrise. After the multiple nights spent patrolling, it is not altogether an unfamiliar experience, the serenity of this small village he and his team have been stationed in, that is beginning to feel like a permanent base.

That being said, it is still a strange thing, this feeling of stability. While Unit Bravo has had each other for several decades, for quite some time and even before that, he has been working with the Agency for centuries, he has always been on the move, traveling to wherever his missions have taken him. And though he is now used to even Felix’s immutable energy, they have—he has—never truly fit into the complex, ever-changing world that they help to protect.

Until now.

He runs a hand through his hair, pressing his lips together as he does so. Their assignment to Wayhaven for the foreseeable future has brought with them more than a few changes. A new home, for one, constructed within a few miles of the village but safely out of sight, for he and the rest of Unit Bravo to use as their home base, that Nate has already begun making plans to design. Regular patrols throughout the village as various supernatural creatures find their way to Wayhaven, drawn consciously or subconsciously to the leylines crossing the town… and the beacon that is Surina’s now altered blood.

A flurry of movement catches his eye and he turns on instinct, body tensing in preparation. But when the figure steps out of the shadows, he suddenly finds his body unresponsive.

The first silvery streaks of daybreak dance over her features, softening the sharp line of her jaw as she fights a yawn. Dark tresses pulled out of her face in a messy ponytail and wrapped in her usual thick jacket, she is hardly changed from those strained days of attempting to stop the vampire masquerading as Murphy.

Or, at least, she would be if not for the scar that slashes across her throat, barely visible under the high collar of her coat and the soft fabric of the scarf wrapped securely around her neck.

He swallows once, hard, watching the light play across her face. As always, his patrol route takes him through the shadows, out of sight of any of the citizens who might be awake in the early hours. There is no reason he should be noticed, hidden as he is.

And yet, part of him cannot help but want to shrink from the sharp gaze she casts around her as she makes her way to the sorry excuse of metal and parts that she calls her car. He knows he is far enough away that there is no chance for her to sense him, but even so, he holds his breath as her attention sweeps in his direction, hesitating for just a heartbeat.

Whether he is more anxious or eager at the prospect of being noticed, he can’t even say for himself.

She does not seem to realize. Stifling another yawn, she shakes her head, though whether it is to clear sleep or something else, he cannot be sure. The movement dislodges a strand of dark ebony that falls across her cheek, curling against the soft skin under her chin. Despite his best efforts, his traitorous eyes trace its path, along her cheeks and down before catching once more on the lacerations marring the smoothness, the innocence.

His heart clenches but he also cannot seem to look away.

Again, she pauses, as if sensing his gaze, and for a moment, her lips purse in a remarkable return to her usual piercing intensity. He can almost hear her mind spinning through theories and facts faster than he can follow before she shakes her head again, a mixture of amusement and exasperation flashing across her face. But still, a faint smile lingers in the corners of her mouth and his breath seems to catch in his throat at the gentleness, a foreign expression that fills him with something that, to his own surprise, resembles regret.

A cool breeze rustles the new leaves above her, toys with her hair, tugging it free to flutter through the morning air. His hand clenches into a fist at his side, his fingers twitching with the strange tingle that runs through his nerves. Surprise makes him pause, looking down at his own hand, but there is nothing there.

The slam of the car door jerks his attention back to the present. She is already sitting in her car, lips pursed, before she twists around, backing out of the parking spot with a skilled touch, eyes squinting against the now rising sun.

He frowns. It is soon approaching morning and his shift is meant to end before the town fully awakens, to avoid inducing more questions of the humans than can be answered. And the rest of the unit, along with Agent Langford, waits for him back at their new base for debriefing before Felix can start on his patrol. He has business waiting for him.

He needs to leave.

So why is his body not listening?

Instead, he finds himself watching the quiet scene unfolding before him, his breath catching in his throat. In the early dawn, she is wreathed in warmth, bright and brilliant in the golden light, and he has never been an artist, never been a man for aesthetics, not like the way Nate is, but in this moment, in this long heartbeat, he _understands_.

In his entire nine centuries of life, throughout the many kingdoms and countries, the people and landscapes he has witnessed, he has never seen anything as beautiful as this.

It is—she is—breathtaking.

The next moment, with the low roar of the engine, she is gone, leaving him staring, motionless, breathless, at the empty space in her wake.


	2. Tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam du Mortain is many things. A man of action and passivity, of control and passion. And he is her everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 13 (Day 2): ~~Feral~~ / **Tender**
> 
> This is a bit shorter than I'd like but I also made the poor life choice of trying to write something citrus-y for this so really, it's on me.

Adam du Mortain is a contradiction.

From the moment they met, she has known that he is a man of action. It was he who fought Murphy, that night so long ago outside the Farris warehouse, he who approached her with such suddenness, such intent, that her survival instincts overpowered her self-control and she shot him in the shoulder. It is he who leads their fights, charging in and drawing attention, relying on his strength and training and skill, protecting the rest of his team from harm. It makes sense, as both one of the physically strongest as well as the commanding agent, and she knows it has saved her life more times than she can count.

And yet… And yet he is also passive, at least to his own ideas and desires. He is, she is sure, a perfect soldier and agent, putting his mission first, his team second, and himself a far distant third. He does what must be done, for the good of his team and the Agency, does not ask questions or even falter until there is no other recourse. He holds himself back, follows orders despite his personal feelings, obeys the chain of command without question. She has seen him back down from his convictions at one sentence from his handler, discarding his own beliefs so quickly he hardly seems like the same man whom she has butted heads with more times than she can count.

He is a man of control. Centuries of training and experience have honed his restraint, have granted him almost enviable command over his faculties. She has seen his physical talents firsthand, his strength and resilience, has seen the precision he has over his movements, both in training and in the field. His ability to think under pressure and commit to his task have been tested and sharpened throughout the years; she does not fully trust the Agency, not after the secrets they have kept from her and the world at large, but she does know that he would not have been made the team leader of Unit Bravo otherwise.

And yet, he is also a man of passion. This she has known from the moment they were introduced, is sure Verda and Tina both knew only a few hours later, considering the intensity and frequency of their arguments. Tina, in particular, has expressed her opinion on the subject more than once. This she has evidence of in the form of dozens of broken furnishings, from shattered plants to broken door hinges, those victims of the moments when even his considerable self-control was overpowered. This she knows every time she meets his gaze, warm and fiery and so intense that she drowns in its depths. Every time he says her name, rough and heavy, making her head spin each time with how beautiful, how _special_ he makes it sound.

Every time she feels the warmth of his touch, the heat that she can feel regardless of how many layers she is wearing. And now…

She gasps, feeling her body arch against even the simple brush of his hand against her bare skin, the sparks that dance through her every nerves. His touch is gentle, as hesitant as his expression as he meets her gaze, and even so, the intensity, the desire and adoration in his eyes, is enough to take her breath away.

Instinctively, wordlessly, she reaches for him, drawing him closer with a desperation that she feels burning in her veins. He is warm and solid, the rapid beating of his heart at once calming, safe, and intoxicating. His scent fills the air, heady and rich, wrapping around her and imbuing the space between them until there is nothing but him.

In this moment, he is everything that she sees, every sensation against her heated skin, every breath she draws.

Here and now, _he_ is everything.

“Adam,” she breathes, his name a prayer, a plea, on her lips, and this time, this time, he holds her close and does not let go.


	3. Tranquil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam finds himself contemplating during a quiet moment in the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m technically late but also it’s still the 15th somewhere ~~and also it was my birthday so I was hanging out with family.~~ Not an excuse but I’m here nonetheless!
> 
> July 15 (Day 4): **Tranquil** / ~~Thrill~~
> 
> Also, day three didn't make its way onto here because I did (read: attempted) art for it instead. If, for some reason, you are curious, [you can find it on my tumblr](https://ravenclawnerd.tumblr.com/post/623667356967763968/i-attempted-another-art-thing-this-time-for).

Adam is, typically, not a man of scholarship. Of course, that is not to say that he doesn’t do it, nor that he does not enjoy books and research, but he also knows that he is not Nate. His strengths lie elsewhere, in the physical rather than the intellectual, something he has had many years to understand and accept. As such, despite his general appreciation for knowledge and reading, particularly when it pertains to better serving the Agency, he does not often frequent the library.

And yet, in this moment, he does not want to be anywhere else.

He doesn’t even fully understand it himself. Not what strange flight of fancy led him over to the library in the first place, when he had plenty of work he should have been focusing on, nor what compelled him to stay once she expressed her willingness to continue researching despite Felix and Mason’s departure. Just as his feet moved without his awareness, the words were out of his mouth before his brain caught up.

But it’s… nice.

He glances upward. From nearly the first moment they met, Surina has proven herself to be a woman focused on science and knowledge, with the training and skill to back up her obvious preference. But even if he did not already know, it is clear enough from just her posture alone.

It is a strange thing. If he was asked to guess, that night at the warehouse, what kind of a woman the detective they were assigned to protect was, he knows what words he would have chosen—combative, impulsive, perhaps even aggressive. And he would not have been wrong, per se, not given the number of times they have gone head to head. She is every bit as stubborn and passionate as he first suspected, but also righteous and loyal and bright enough that she can draw his attention, no matter what he should be focusing on.

At some point in the past hours, she has shifted her formal posture, now curled up into the corner of the couch with her legs tucked up under her. Gentle hands cradle the book in her lap, fingers smoothing over worn parchment with care, and he looks down to find his own hand twitching at her soft smile, at the quiet whisper in the back of his mind, wondering what those fingers might feel like…

Turning his head away, he exhales sharply, the sound deafening and abrupt in the peaceful room. But he does not need to watch to hear her start, to hear her pulse race in her chest. In spite of his best efforts, he stiffens, body tensing ever so slightly from his lapse in judgment, from the sudden intrusion in his thoughts.

Silence, save for the thundering rush of their heartbeats, hers only marginally louder than his own, is the only response he receives. When he chances a glance back in her direction, it is to find her watching him, her smile replaced by a faint frown and her eyebrows knitted together, and he almost, _almost_ , flinches when she speaks.

“Find anything?”

Her voice is low, but it still seems to carry throughout in the library, echoing in his mind. He presses his lips together, forces his hand to stillness rather than clenching around the spine of his book, but the concern in the depths of those grey eyes, tempered by curiosity and calm and something else, something he does not dare to recognize, seems to draw an answer from his chest. “Not yet.”

She hums in reply, her face settling back into neutrality as she casts her focus back down without additional commentary, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he attempts to do the same, to no avail. Instead, he can only stare, unseeing, at the book before him, mind consumed by her every soft inhale, every turning page. He knows better than to let his guard down, knows that doing so will bring nothing but pain to them both, and yet…

And yet words rise in his chest, dance on the tip of his tongue, questions and observations and a strange desire for idle conversation. They have him gritting his teeth into a grimace to keep them all in, an expression that, given the way her face drops, does not go unnoticed.

Still, he is taken aback when, rather than make a comment, as she is so wont to do, she only sighs, a light puff of air that in spite of himself, he can _feel_ against his hypersensitive skin. He should feel relieved, given his own resolution only a day earlier, should focus on his research or, better yet, leave her to her work, but when she stretches, languid and luxurious, almost feline in nature, he finds himself fighting to keep from staring.

Even so, he is not quick enough to avert his eyes before she catches him in the act. His heart freezes, pinned under her sharp gaze. For a moment, she seems to deliberate, emotions flashing across her face in quick succession, embarrassment and amusement, before settling on a faint, polite smile that is so at odds with the woman he has come to know.

It is what he wants, what is best for them both. He knows this, has always known this, and it is even supported by his ridiculous flight of fancy at the carnival.

He does not put stock into fate, has always believed in the power of individual effort and success, but for once, he finds him repeating the fortuneteller’s words in a mantra in his mind and ignoring the faint pang in his chest. Instead, he forces his own gaze back to the faint spidery print he has been attempting to decipher and away from the woman he has already come to realize he will never be able to.


	4. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Camellia Guo's call to Unit Bravo after Bobby's collapse goes a little bit differently...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We change up the adventures in Wayhaven Week by changing to a different detective, my girl Camellia. She was originally my main MC in 7KPP but I decided to try her in TWC and she turned into her own character. She has a Whole Entire Backstory different from what’s in game about Bobby and it’s really not great. Trust me on that lol. Poor girl deserves better.
> 
> July 16 (Day 5): **Guilt** / ~~Forgiveness~~

For several moments, all she can do is stare. The man lies, collapsed, on the floor of her bedroom, somehow at once foreign and yet so very familiar, and she can’t figure out which part is worse. Blue streaks across his skin in wild patterns and blisters, large and painful looking, cover his arms as they climb toward his face. And yet, underneath all of that, she can still see the man she remembers from college. The man she gave so much to.

The man she once thought she would marry.

The memory is a sudden blow and she draws a deep breath, nearly stumbling under the unexpected weight. Between her promotion to detective, her work as a liaison for the Agency, and her newfound understanding of the world, she has barely had the time to keep about her business, let alone consider the specters of her past. But now…

She falls to the floor beside him as her knees give way, barely catching herself before she collapses on top of him. His every muscle is tense, teeth audibly grinding together in distress and she can feel her heart clenching in her chest with every pained sound. In spite of her better judgment, she reaches out, brushing his hair away from his already damp forehead before tearing her gaze away.

Her eyes fall to his hand, lying by his side and clenched tightly around… his phone?

It takes her a moment to extract it from his death grip, his fingers tight and unmoving under her shaking touch. Its screen is lit, still recording in the now silent room, and her stomach sinks as she looks it over, the contents barely registering against the sudden wave of guilt that threatens to pull her under.

He stayed to talk to her, because of his suspicions about Unit Bravo. If she hadn’t… Maybe if she hadn’t let him in, if she told him the truth earlier about everything, then…

She swallows hard, pressing her lips together to prevent them from trembling. No. Not now. Not yet. Her gaze falls back to his face, contorted in agony, and she needs to… She needs to…

Fighting the panic rising in her chest, she shakes her head, drawing a shaky breath and feeling the fog in her mind retreat, not completely but enough. First, she needs to get help. But not the hospital. Not for something supernatural. Which means…

Her phone.

She turns, scanning the room with frantic eyes. Between dealing with Bobby and the intrusion of the creatures from the carnival, it must have fallen somewhere, but she can’t see it. It’s not there. Surely the creatures didn’t…

No.

The call with Verda. The one that somehow seems like it was a lifetime ago.

Fighting back the hysterical laugh bubbling in her throat, she forces herself to her feet and stumbles for her bathroom, her erratic breathing ringing louder than her hurried footsteps against the tiles. She grabs it, fumbling and clumsy, and it nearly slips out of her hand as she returns to her bedroom and stands vigil over Bobby’s collapsed form, the hard plastic case digging into her skin.

Her vision is blurred and it takes her several heartbeats to unlock it, fingers slick against the screen. With each beat, rough, muffled whimpers echo throughout the small room, amplified by her own panic, each one another reminder of her failure.

The sound that escapes her lips when the screen loads is half gasp, half cry, her hand shaking as she scrolls through the contacts, jabbing the name with enough force that a faint jolt of pain shoots through her arm. Even with her phone pressed against her ear, all she can hear is the thundering roar of her pulse, until…

“Detective?”

The collected voice that filters through the phone, tinny as it is from the speaker, is at once reassuring and heartrending. She gasps, feeling her body and the remnants of her self-control collapse. “Adam.” The name is choked, more sob than word, and she swallows hard against the lump in her throat, clinging desperately to some shred of normalcy.

“Lia.” His tone is at once softer and more frantic than before, comforting and painful, all at the same time. She pressed her lips together, shuddering silently as she struggles to regain some semblance of composure. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No.”

The whisper is so quiet that she isn’t sure if the microphone can even pick it up. Adam does not seem to pay it mind if it did; instead, a shuffle plays through her speaker and when he speaks again, it is with that same gentleness that somehow makes her heart squeeze in on itself, a tightness that makes every breath a laborious chore. “Is something the matter? I’m coming now.”

“Please.”

The quiet breath is all she can manage, her voice strained even for the one word, but he does not comment on it, has none of his usual harsh demeanor. “Stay there. I’ll be there soon.”

He hangs up then, but the sound barely registers as her phone slips out of numb fingers, falling to the floor with a clatter. Her body follows only seconds later, sinking to the floor beside _his_ prone form with a tremble that she can’t seem to stop. Instead, in the deafening silence, she only pulls her legs up to her chest and buries her face in her knees with a shuddering sob.


	5. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not even Commanding Agent Adam du Mortain is immune to nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm nearly a full week late, I know. I have excuses but in the end, they mean nothing, but hopefully the word count can help make up for it!
> 
> Content warning: Mild descriptions of violence and otherwise potentially gory topics. They’re nightmares, but still. Please keep that in mind! (I changed the author's warnings for a reason!)
> 
> Also, disclaimer: I am using quite a few headcanons based on information that we have gleaned from Mishka about A and their past, as well as stuff that I have hypothesized about with teaandinanity on tumblr (Eithe here on AO3). I fully expected to get jossed as future books come out, but this should be mostly fitting with what we know so far! Ummm... enjoy?
> 
> July ~~17~~ 23 (Day 6): ~~Daydream~~ / **Nightmare**

Adam’s relationship with sleep has always been a tempestuous one. As a vampire, he can go for days on end without it, one of the many advantages that accompanied his transition from human to supernatural. In his, albeit limited, knowledge of biology, he might even consider it to be a defensive mechanism; the process to become a vampire is hardly an easy one, after all, and more importantly; night is the only time when the sun does not weaken them. Being subject to the physiological constraints of mortality, as well as the prospective psychological helplessness of sleep, would be a distinct disadvantage.

Or, at least the very least, it would be for him.

He discovers it entirely by accident. His first attempts at rest are… harrowing, the long stretches seemingly endless, haunted by the threat of attacks and the specters of what he has lost. It is desperation that drives him to stay awake for as long as he can, a deep, primitive need to keep the visions, the memories, lurking, always lurking, in his subconscious, at bay. And he discovers that he could, that he _can_ , for days on end, leaving him tired but still functional enough to do what must be done.

The fact that he is usually then too tired to dream is only another bonus.

With his additional hours, he discovers and joins with the Agency, throwing himself into his newfound work, devoting himself to his duty of protecting both the human world and the supernatural. They keep him busy, his assignments, test his strengths to their limits, forces him to adapt and learn. Driven by need, he learns to shut it all out, to shield his mind, shield his heart. Or, at least, shield what remains of it.

After all, in the end, for his new purpose, for this existence of his, all he truly needs, all that he relies on, is his strength.

But time, even with his prodigious memory, heals, or at least blurs, all things. Weeks turn into months, years to decades and centuries. He continues to serve, to focus on the present, on the straightforward. And slowly, _slowly_ , he relaxes his barriers, just enough for one friend, at first, thoughtful and patient and understanding, and it’s not much, doesn’t always keep the memories at bay, but it helps. He can close it all off, bury it deep into recesses of his mind, hiding it through his work and his friendships and the ensuing years until it is more necessity than distress which keeps him awake, those nights in Wayhaven with the rogue vampire threatening his charge, his mission.

But even if he wants to, he cannot hold it off forever. There are some things that, despite their rapid healing, he cannot avoid, and after consuming the altered blood, the rogue vampire was… too strong, even for his team at their finest. And they hardly were that, half-mad with worry and with Surina always in the back of their minds. No, this time, he needs to rest, to heal.

He stumbles to his room, feeling his muscles begin to protest the movement, each motion pained and lethargic, and falls asleep almost as soon as he collapses onto his bed.

* * *

It is the air he recognizes first, clean and crisp, without any of the dust and pollution that usually fills his senses, coats his throat in a layer of grime. The roar, too, of engines, the constant hum of electricity, are all absent, so that all he can hear is the shifting of plants and the sweet melody of birdsong. Around him, the cool breeze carries a hint of wildflowers and freshly tilled earth, gentle and familiar.

Instinctively, he finds himself relaxing and he opens his eyes.

Green fields meet his gaze, warm and spacious. Tall and rich and soft, the grass stretches upward and it seems to call to him, beckoning him forward with a lure that he does not, that he _cannot_ , resist. The wind picks up, drawing the grasses into a dance, just enough so that the field almost sings, and without conscious thought, he finds himself breaking into a run. His feet pound against the earth, strong and steady, his lungs burn with the comforting, simple need for oxygen, the grasses around him seem to sprout with each step, first to his ankles and then almost brushing against his knees, and still he pushes himself onward.

With each bounding step, the land is more recognizable, stirring memories in the back of his mind, and he has to fight a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to laugh, bright and reckless, as he continues, picking up speed, eyes straining for the distance. They are all waiting for him, just a little farther…

It is not until a silhouette draws into view that he falters for just a moment, feet stumbling as his heart squeezes in his chest. The man stands, tall and strong and confident, as he looks out over the lands, over _his_ lands, with a smaller figure perched on his shoulder. As if sensing his approach, they turn towards him and, in the bright light of the sun, he cannot make out their features, but he knows, he _knows_. A smile curved his lips, the expression stiff and unfamiliar to his facial muscles, but it doesn’t matter, because…

“Father!”

His voice rings out across the space between them, nearly strangled in his throat by exertion and emotion both, but he can still hear the laugh filling the air as it always did, warm and rich and expansive.

“Adam, my boy! There you are!”

The hearty tone echoes through the field, affection infusing every word, and his breath, already labored from activity, catches in his chest. His entire body relaxes, releasing the tension that he has been carrying for years, for _centuries_ , at the warm familiarity, and he cannot hold back a soft, carefree chuckle at the shriek of delight that threatens to drown out whatever reply he might have had.

“Adam!”

Even from that distance, he can see thin arms reaching out for him, accompanied by that bright, chirping call of his name, and he adjusts his course, directing his feet in their direction. He calls for them again, sees the joy on their faces, and puts on another burst of speed.

He’s so _close_ , separated by only a short distance, except…

Except his every breath is coming in ragged pants now, straining in his chest, and the ground flies beneath his feet, but the distance between them hasn’t changed. They aren’t moving any closer. Instead, they seem to fade from view, enveloped by a thick, dark fog, bit by bit and still too fast. His father’s mouth moves, lips forming words that he cannot make out, but the sounds vanish into the haze before they can make it to him. He is yelling back, harsh, wordless cries as he flings himself forward, panic and desperation icy hands that grip his spine as he watches for, as he _dreads_ , the inevitable.

They vanish completely, engulfed by the murk that has now turned its attention to him, and he _screams_.

* * *

Dust and ash coat his tongue, filling his mouth with their acrid taste. He coughs, squinting against the burning in his eyes as dark smoke swirls in his face, but he doesn’t stop his frantic rush. His heart races in his chest, pounds in his skull as he sprints forward, ignoring the cacophony of metal clanging in his ears, the weight on his hip, just enough to throw off his stride.

He has to hurry before it’s too late. He has to—

Something catches his foot, sending him careening forward. He barely catches himself in time as he stumbles to a stop, righting himself before he crashes to the ground, and casts his gaze down instinctively.

He freezes.

“No.”

The single word falls, unbidden, from his lips, hangs in the smoke-choked air alongside his horror. It does not sound like his voice, the half-strangled moan almost inaudible, but he does not pay it any mind, does not notice anything but the figure lying at his feet, battered, torn, and horribly still. 

“Father…”

There is no response from the man, only just so steady, so alive, in his mind’s eye, the figure once larger than life now broken and withered. The pale skin is marred with slashes and burns, blood and dirt caking every visible wound, staining the once-fine cloth, but one arm, stiff and unmoving, still curves around a tiny form, half-hidden under the bulk. Death has made the already slight body even more diminutive, and he cannot help but be thankful for the pale, fine hair, mussed and stained a horrible dark red that turns his stomach, which hides the small face from view.

Heart constricting, he looks away.

As if waiting for his attention to shift, the fog retreats until he can see the full interior of the room, and his stomach lurches, bile rising in his throat, almost enough to chase out the lingering taste of ash. Flames are still tearing through the place, a terrible macabre dance as they stream across the floor and lick up the walls, leaving only black charred wood in their wake. And between them…

Bodies, more bodies than he can even make out, are scattered against the ground, almost layered atop one another. They are nauseating familiar, every one of them, the figures from nearly a thousand years of memories brought back to lie before him. Even across the distance, he can see their faces as clear as day, all turned toward him, contorted into grotesque masks of pain, of agony.

Of fear.

He has heard it said before that immolation, that limbs seizing as muscles and tendons burn away, is one of the most painful ways to die. Looking at the faces of those he cared, those he still cares about, terror and suffering etched into their final moments, their final expressions, he can believe it.

Another wave of nausea crashes over him and he tries to look away, tries to close his eyes against the guilt that seems to spill from their faces, the harsh accusations and pleading questions, but they still haunt his mind and he cannot stop himself from stepping forward, from slowly traversing the room and examining each one, a morbid exhibition of his past, a self-inflicted punishment as he reminds himself of everyone he has failed. His parents and siblings. Friends from centuries past. The family of his own.

A creak of metal breaks him from his scrutiny and he looks down to find a gauntleted hand wrapping around the hilt hanging at his side. For a moment, he stares blankly, the grip warm, comfortable, in his hand, and then revulsion, bitter, caustic revulsion, rises in his chest. Before he can think, he tears it, scabbard and all, free with a guttural yell, throwing it across the room where it shatters through one of the walls. Next to…

His heart stops.

The next moment, he is stumbling across the room in rapid, uneven steps, eyes focused, unblinking, at the three bodies in the distance. The three very familiar bodies, also crumpled and motionless, and all of the other battered forms seem to fade from existence because it’s not possible. It can’t be…

 _It can’t be_ …

He barely feels the shock of the ground against his knees, barely notices anything except for the faces that stare at him, devoid of any signs of life. Mason, a snarl on his face, stares at him with an almost accusatory gaze, hard and unrelenting even in death. Almost hidden underneath him is Felix and the terror in his eyes, the once-spirited amber now dull and glassy, is a knife to the chest, a guilt that chokes him, squeezing his chest so tightly that he can’t seem to draw any air into his lungs.

With a desperate gasp, he rips his gaze away, only for it to fall on…

“Nate.”

The name takes shape in his mouth but he can’t breathe, can’t move, can only take in the prone, shattered form of his friend. He lies atop the other two, riddled with bruises and wounds that haven’t healed, that won’t ever heal, arms outstretched as if to shield the others, and the look of of calm acceptance, the slightest hint of his typical smile, cuts deeper than any amount of anger would have. Vision blurred, he reaches out a shaking hand, gently closes those warm brown eyes that watch him without any trace of malice, that have, he knows, only ever trusted and cared for him.

Somehow, it is all the worse for it.

He closes his eyes, feeling the tears he has fought to keep at bay for almost a millennium leave streaks of warmth down his face, crack his frozen heart, as he bows his head. It has been many, _many_ years since he has attended a service, since he has considered himself religious, and yet…

Yet words from a different life, a simpler life, rise, unbidden, in his mind and he finds himself whispering to himself, a lifeline in the raging inferno. “ _Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine…_ ”

The loud splintering of wood echoes throughout the room, warning groans as the fires continue to spread, to consume the wooden supports. They barely register in his consciousness, are muffled by the screams reverberating in his mind, the memories of anguished cries that burst free from his tenuous control, swirling and drowning out every sensation, every thought, except for one.

_It is all his fault. It has always been all his fault._

A deafening crack rents the air, shakes him out of his stupor. He gasps, blinking to clear his vision, and looks up, just in time to watch as the flames eat through a portion of the rafter. For a moment, the wood seems to hover overhead, held aloft by the heated air and smoke, by the embodiment of his sin, and then it collapses, rushing toward him in a blazing mass of wood and stone, a fiery judgment from the heavens.

So be it.

Bowing his head once more, he closes his eyes and lets it fall.

* * *

The night is dark; even the faint glimpse of moonlight from the waxing crescent overhead is hidden by the clouds that hang, almost like thick smoke, in the sky. For a moment, the thought makes him pause, but his purpose drives him onward.

He will not be so easily thwarted by distractions.

The building, too, is dark, the agents inside clearly asleep. Methodically, he casts a calculating gaze over each door and window, his mind spinning through possibilities. She must be in the infirmary; the earlier fight did a number to her and humans are so very much more fragile than vampires, after all.

There are guards stationed at the entrance, just as there always are. Agents Monroe and Taryn lounge outside, heads turned toward each other as they converse in quiet tones. Even in the darkness, he can see the faint smiles on their faces, exuding calm and, more importantly, complacency. A thin one of his own curves his lips.

It is truly a pity that they won’t be alive long enough to realize just how wrong they are.

Even two against one, they are no match for him. A quiet sigh escaped his lips as he overpowers the first, knocking them unconscious with a swift blow to the side of the neck before stabbing their partner in the chest with a silver dagger. Quick, efficient, and without anyone the wiser.

He allows himself a quiet tut of disapproval. While it may have proven convenient to his plans, he is, first and foremost, a predator, one that cannot help but be disappointed by the sheer _incompetence_ of his prey; he certainly would expect better from the guards that the Agency leaves to protect its facility from infiltration.

Still, a success is a success and it is this he focuses on as he straightens his clothes, brushing his hands off before continuing forward.

As he moves to enter the building, he hesitates, eyes shifting upward and catching sight of one window in particular. The light is off in the room, nothing distinguishing it from the ones surrounding it, and yet… He checks his steps for a moment, staring upward with something akin to trepidation, half-expecting a sharp, pale gaze to peer out of it, at him.

And… nothing. Just as he expected.

Snorting silently at his own foolishness, he shakes himself out of his stupor and slips into the building. Even as poorly prepared as they are for this kind of attack, he only has so much time before the guards’ absence is noticed, and he has a prize to collect.

The halls are plain, clinical, but straightforward and empty. He navigates through them with ease, his keen senses already picking up the sweet, intoxicating fragrance of altered blood, and he can feel his throat dry at the lingering memory of its taste on his tongue, of the _power_ that flowed through his veins.

The hunger that burns with his every step, leading him closer and closer to his prize.

He has to admit to some surprise when there is nobody waiting outside of her room. Judging from the scene at her apartment, the woman’s well-being, or at least existence, was a matter of at least _some_ importance to the Agency, something that was worth keeping at least one individual as a guard. Certainly he would hardly be so careless in protecting something so valuable.

Or, perhaps, the Agency is simply oblivious to what a prize they actually have in their possession.

Sticking to the shadows, he peeks into the room. The human is alone, other than one nurse with his back to the door, though clearly in no state to move, or even regain consciousness. He sighs, frowning as he watches the satyr hang up a small bag filled with thick red liquid, and he takes a deep, steadying breath, forcing himself to focus on anything other than the way the tender skin of her neck shifts with each heartbeat, the tantalizing scent that seems to waft towards him, even through the closed door. Are humans truly so frail that even a full day later, she requires additional blood, just to live?

Well. Something to keep in mind, then, once he has possession of her once more. But first…

He waits until the nurse’s hands are occupied with his tools, then strikes, bursting into the room so suddenly that the tray hits the floor in an echoing clatter of plastic and metal. Ignoring the jarring cacophony, he leaps forward. One hand slaps over the creature’s mouth as he lunges for the throat, but he is not quick enough to muffle the first scream.

At least there is no chance for a second.

Letting the corpse fall to the ground with a crunch of flesh and bone, he straightens, wiping a hand over his mouth with a grimace of distaste. He has never been fond of the taste of more fae-like blood—too tangy for his preference. But… He glances towards the bed again, where his reward awaits, and allows himself a moment of satisfaction.

It is cut short the next moment. A rumble of voices, of movement, all heading in his direction, reaches his ears. Reinforcements, no doubt. Too many for him to take on. Not alone and unprepared.

Swearing, he swings around, searching for a window to no avail. No easy exit, especially not with precious cargo. And if he doesn’t succeed this time…

He pauses, narrowing his gaze. He knows better than to believe that if he fails this time, he will get another opportunity. Not with this particular specimen. Even incompetent as they may be, the Agency knows better than to risk it again. No, even they must realize that it would be safer to kill the human than to risk another attempt.

The thought makes his fists clench, a sudden tightness constrict his chest, and he growls, pushing the strange reaction aside as he cocks his head, listening.

There is no escape for him. Not like this. And if he does not, then any chance he has of success, any slim margin, is forfeit. Not just now, but forever.

Surely there will be others with this mutation. He can be patient. For now, he need only survive. Which means…

_No._

The word, the cry, echoes through his mind, but his body still darts across the room without hesitation, taking in the tiny figure, almost dwarfed by the bed she lies in. Her typically olive skin is pale, expressive grey eyes, so often narrowed at him with anger and distrust and, lurking in their depths, fear, closed tightly shut. And underneath all of that…

He takes a deep breath, drawing in the perfume of that sweet nectar, almost overpowering when so close. So simple, and yet so powerful…

His hands shake as he reaches out to tip her head to one side, exposing the long line of her jugular. It is almost a shame that she cannot be awake to witness it, cannot make any attempt at a defense, but he does not have the time or patience. Not when he can hear the beating of her heart, can feel the flutter of it against his skin, and his throat aches with desire, with a need to slake his thirst so strong that it would be terrifying were it not so _exhilarating_.

With a harsh groan, he sinks his fangs in, letting the blood fill his mouth. Immediately, his eyes roll back as strength floods his veins, as every sensation floods to his system. He can feel the heartbeats of everyone in the facility, can hear the noise as the crowd draws near, can even taste the faint tang of his own blood mixed in with her own. He can hear her breathing hitch and then stop, can feel her pulse slow and then come to an end altogether. It is too much and not enough and he can feel his consciousness almost fading away, oblivious to everything except for the liquid that pours from the wound, that he cannot get enough of.

There is nothing but him and her and that overwhelming, impossible _power_.

“Murphy!”

The door to the room slams open, the sound blasting through his mind as several dozen agents burst inside, weapons drawn as though they believe they have any chance in stopping him. It is almost adorable, how much stock they put towards their little toys, towards their precious poison. If only they knew…

But they will now. Oh, they will now.

He turns away from the corpse to face them, blood still dripping from his fangs, and, throwing his head back, begins to laugh.

* * *

He awakens with a jolt, barely able to hold back the yell on the tip of his tongue, that strains to burst forth. In a heartbeat, he is on his feet, halfway to the door before reality begins to bleed through the adrenaline flooding his veins. One hand clenched around the doorknob, he stiffens, feeling his heart racing in his chest, letting the silence sink into his mind, the darkness wash away the images floating in his vision. He is back in the facility. The night is calm.

It was all a dream.

Swinging around to sit back down on the edge of his bed, he lets out a soft groan, leaning his elbows on his knees and running a rough hand over his face. After everything that has happened in the past few days, he cannot be surprised that his dreams are less than pleasant and it is hardly the first time he has been plagued by nightmares from his past, and yet…

He stares down at his hands, clenching them into fists in an effort to prevent them from trembling.

And yet, _this_ is different. His childhood, the fire, none of that is unfamiliar territory for his subconscious but… He groans again, uncurling his hands to bury his face in them, a futile attempt to block out the visions of _her_ , to stop his mind from conjuring them up in vivid color. He has never been so affected by a failed mission, never been so haunted by the existence of a simple human, especially one who cannot even seem to follow the most basic tenets of common sense. She is only human and the threat has always been there. He knows this, has always known this.

So then why can he not get the sight of her, broken and bleeding on the floor of the old warehouse, out of his mind?

“Enough,” he growls aloud, his voice harsh even by his own standards.

As if on cue, a knock on the door draws his attention and he freezes. He cannot claim that it is entirely a surprise given his friend's propensity for hovering but he still has to suppress a sigh when Nate enters his room a moment later, worry apparent in his dark eyes.

“Are you alright? I thought I heard…” When he raises his head to meet that warm gaze, it is to find Nate’s expression softening with compassion that he does not want, that he has to look away from.

“I’m fine.” The words are curt, as formal as he can make them, and, he hopes, more normal to his friend’s ears than they are to his own. He sits up straight, forcing the discomfort and exhaustion from his posture as he raises what remains of his barriers, ruthlessly burying the torrent of emotions somewhere far into the depths of his mind.

Except… he cannot quite prevent himself from hesitating, cannot prevent his mouth from forming the question that escapes his lips in a muffled whisper. “Surina?”

Even as soft as his voice is, it clearly catches Nate’s attention; he shakes his head, concern creasing his brow. “The same as she was, I’m afraid. She hasn’t woken up yet, but Elidor says it might take a little while longer. Rebecca hasn’t left her side.”

For a moment, he works his jaw, barely resisting the idiotic urge to ask about Murphy’s whereabouts. Instead, he simply nods, doing his best to ignore the weight that settles on his chest, the anxiety curling in his stomach, only made stronger by the meaningful look that he receives.

“You should really go check on her yourself, you know.”

The words are mild, studiously so, but even so he flinches, ever so slightly, his body moving before his mind has a chance to catch up. He does not need to look to know that Nate has noticed, does not need to see the look of sympathy that is cast in his direction when he does not reply other than to clench his hands into fists at his side.

He still freezes when a gentle hand falls on his shoulder, the accompanying words soft, understanding. “She’ll be okay. She may be human, but she’s still stronger than you think.”

“Nate…”

He doesn’t say any more and he doesn’t need to; the word, the quiet murmur, is both admission and plea, and the hand squeezes once, gently, before withdrawing with a faint exhale, just too light to be a full sigh.

“Thank you.”

Nate’s chuckle is bright, cheerful, and in spite of himself, he feels himself relaxing, the panic and turmoil in his mind subsiding, ever so slightly. “You’re welcome. And don’t worry, I’ll leave you be now. Though… only if you stop brooding.” He raises his head, just in time to see the faintest hint of a smirk cross his friend’s face as he pauses in the doorway, head turned back to meet his gaze. “But seriously. You should go check on her. Or at least think on it, okay?”

The door swings closed before he can muster any sort of response. For a moment, he stares at it, listening to the light footsteps fading in the distance, before he slouches back into his bed, lets out a faint groan, and buries his face in his hands.


	6. Shatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, things don't work out. Sometimes, for their own good, things can't work out. This is one of those times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm, uh, almost a full month late. With angst. Whoops. Sorry.
> 
> ~~Is it even breakup fic if they were never together to begin with?~~
> 
> ~~July 18~~ August 13 (Day 7): **Shatter** / ~~Mend~~

Adam has always known that emotions are a dangerous thing. In his many many years, he has seen their effects firsthand, seen them turn so many powerful and influential people away from their ambitions and potential, lead once honorable individuals down twisted paths towards the doom of not only themselves but also societies, nations.

As such, it has always been easier, been safer, to keep things at arms length, to avoid those messy entanglements that lead only to pain and destruction.

Or, at least, it has been until Wayhaven and _her_.

He runs a hand over his hair, feeling his chest tighten just at the thought. Somehow, in ways that even he doesn’t understand, Surina, fiery and stubborn and argumentative Surina, has managed to tear through his defenses, those layers that he has spent centuries constructing, that he once thought were impenetrable. With the force of her personality, the flames in her spirit, she has thawed his icy shield, broken through his barrier, until he has nothing left, nothing for him to hide behind, not from her. Except…

Except he has also seen, time and time again, that this, that _he_ , puts her in danger. If she had not risked it all for Unit Bravo, for him, perhaps she would not have nearly died against Murphy. Perhaps she would not be constantly thrown into harm’s way, would not be willing to throw herself forward, towards those that she has always been wary of.

“ _The darkness to come may swallow you both_.”

He has never put much stake into fate or the general inevitability of what is to come, even with his knowledge of the supernatural, the lingering sense of magicks that he could sense around the woman. There is no future that cannot be influenced by enough force of will, no outcome that is fully predetermined. And yet…

And yet, in this case, the fortune teller spoke true. He can feel it, lingering like a dark specter over his mind, a thick haze that threatens to pull him in. There is no saving him, but maybe, maybe…

He glances upward with as much nonchalance as he can manage. Surina sits on one end of the couch, carefully out of the way as she curls up with a book in her lap. A faint frown of concentration tugs at the corners of her mouth and he takes a quiet breath, enjoying the rare peace, letting the calm of the moment wash over him, settle in his veins. Perhaps the last time.

His chest tightens. He should have known better from the start.

Shaking himself, he clears his throat, wincing at the heaviness of the sound, at the way it shatters the silence in the library. He knows without looking up that her attention has been redirected to him, can picture the single eyebrow that she quirks in his direction, and the thought is enough to make his muscles tense.

“Adam?”

Her voice is soft, full of a gentleness that is still unfamiliar, unexpected, and all the more painful for it. He clenches his fist in his lap, forcing his face to remain stiff, impassive. “Detective Langford.”

The coldness, the harsh rebuke, of his voice is almost enough to make himself flinch, restrained only through desperate force of will. The air is heavy, thick with the weight of his formality, with the hostility he is doing his best to project, and he takes a slow breath, bracing himself for the inevitable backlash.

A heartbeat.

Even as loud as his pulse is thundering in his ears, it does not manage to muffle the sharp inhale that seems to pierce right through the icy walls he has raised around his heart. He stiffens, waiting, but oddly, the expected rebuttal does not come.

In spite of himself, he steals a glance over in her direction. She has frozen, hunched in her seat, looking almost as though she took a blow to the stomach. Her lips press together and he _knows_ her, _knows_ that the crease in her brow is not of anger but of concentration as she analyzes the situation, and somehow that sends another pang through his chest.

Focused on his own unexpected reaction, he finds himself too slow to look away when she raises her eyes. His breath catches at the mix of realization and hurt in her gaze, but the only sound that passes her lips is a slow, ragged exhale.

“I see.”

And she does. Of course she does. He has seen her quick thinking in action, knows the strength of her logic. They, coupled with her understanding of the natural world and her strong sense of righteousness, are what have gained her respect and admiration within Wayhaven and the Agency both.

In this moment, he can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.

Still, he slowly draws a breath, forcing his voice to be even colder, even more implacable. “Do you, detective?”

The words lie heavy on his tongue, hang bitterly in the air between them, but that is the point, isn’t it? They are designed to cut, to enrage, and he finds himself holding his breath, waiting for the telltale bristle of her fiery temper, the anger that has always left them at odds, that has always served to drive her away before.

But instead…

Instead, her silence, save for the faint stutter of her breath, hurts all the more.

And still, he cannot look away as she visibly flinches, does not deserve to escape the evidence of the hurt he has caused through his own carelessness. This, the pain and regret, are his punishment, the consequence of his failures, of his mistakes. If he had not been so lax in his control, if he had not given her any indications of his regard, then perhaps…

Well, at least she has a lifetime still, made longer by decreased association with him, and the resilience to bounce back and fight for what she believes in, that which makes her stand out in any crowd. Though that supposes she, vibrant and passionate as she is, had any chance to blend in at all.

His hands clenched into fists, he presses his lips together, biting the inside of his mouth so hard that, despite his accelerated healing, the tang of iron coats his tongue. He forces himself to meet her gaze, to counter the pained confusion with steady stoicism, to ignore the genuine shock and distress apparent in every line of her posture, in her shuddering inhale and the red-rimmed eyes that she tries to hide from him.

“Yes.” The reply is a breath, so quiet that even he can barely hear it, and he has to fight the urge to avert his attention, to hide like the coward he is from his own actions. For a moment, she closes her eyes, something unfamiliar flashing across her face, sharp and painful, and as much as he stiffens, he is almost thankful for the sensation, for the bitter torment that is also no more than he deserves.

A quiet clearing of the throat shakes him out of his reverie. In spite of himself, he flinches, ever so slightly, but she does not appear to notice, or at least doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she sits upright, back ramrod straight, face schooled into an impassive mask, and gives a sharp nod. “Yes, I do.” A beat as her gaze wavers. “And I understand.”

He blinks, but before he can settle on a response, she puts down her book, the thud of it closing almost deafening in the silence. Something soft, almost apologetic, curves her lips, so quick, so unusual, that he almost misses it, and then she stands in a swift, abrupt motion. “I should go. I…” For a moment, she seems to falter, her breath shuddering, but then her hands clench at her sides and she focuses that sharp grey gaze on him with another stiff nod. “My apologies, Agent du Mortain.”

The door swings shut behind her lightly but it echoes in his head with a finality that he can’t seem to shake. In her wake, the library is deafening, almost stifling in its silence. He draws a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he forces his body to relax, as he wills his mind to focus on his reading, on his mission, on anything except for the too loud silence, on the conspicuous absence of her steady heartbeat.

He fails.

With an audible groan, he hunches over, pressing his face into his hands. He should be happy about this. This is what he wanted.

So then why does it hurt all the more?


End file.
